“We found it in the White Sands,” Halliday explained. “It had been buried nearly at the top of the ridge and the coyotes had dug it out and this is all they had left. But his father here, and every one of us, have identified it.”
Mead and his friends looked the body over carefully. The face had been gnawed by coyotes and picked by buzzards until not a recognizable feature was left. The shining white teeth glared from a lipless mouth. Closely cropped black hair still covered the head. On one hand was a plain gold ring set with a large turquoise.
“You must remember that ring,” said the father. Mead nodded. Colonel Whittaker slipped it from the finger, dried and burned by the sun, and showed the four men the initials, “W. W.,” on the inside. The clothing was badly tattered and much of it had been torn away. Part of a pongee silk shirt still hung on the body. On the inside of the collar were the young man’s initials worked in red silk. “His mother did that,” said Colonel Whittaker. Around the neck was a dark-colored scarf, and in it was an odd, noticeable pin, a gold nugget of curious shape. The four men had all seen Will Whittaker wear it many times. A ragged remnant of a coat hung on the mangled body. In the breast pocket Colonel Whittaker showed them some letters and a small memorandum book. From the book had been torn some leaves and all the remaining pages were blank. But on the inside of the leather cover the name, “Will Whittaker,” had been printed in heavy black letters. Rain and sun had almost obliterated the addresses on the two envelopes in the pocket, but enough of the letters could still be made out to show what the words had probably been.
Halliday turned the body over and showed them three bullet holes in the back, in the left shoulder blade. They were so close together that their ragged edges touched one another, and a silver dollar would have covered all of them. Apparently, the man had been shot at close range and the bullets had gone through to the heart.
Mead finished his inspection of the body and turned to Halliday. All the rest of the party had come up and dismounted and were standing beside their horses around the grisly, mangled thing and the four men who were examining it. Several of the men were wounded and blood was dripping over their clothing. A red mark across Tuttle’s cheek showed how narrow had been his escape, and a bloody stain on Mead’s shirt told the story of a flesh wound.
“Jim,” Mead began, and then paused, looking Halliday squarely in the eyes, while his own friends and the sheriff’s party edged closer, all listening breathlessly. None of them had any idea what he was going to say, whether it would be surrender, or defiance and a declaration of continued war. Nick and Tom exchanged glances and cocked their revolvers, which they held down beside their legs. “Jim,” Mead went on, “I acknowledge nothing about this body except that, as far as I can see, it seems to be the body of Will Whittaker and he seems to have died from these pistol shots. But I reckon it calls, merely on the face of it, mind, for me to make good the word I gave to Wellesly. Here are my guns.”
He handed his rifle to Halliday, unfastened his cartridge belt and passed that and his revolver to the deputy sheriff. Among the Whittaker party there were some glances of surprise, but more nods of congratulation. Nick and Tom looked at each other in indignant dismay. Tom’s eyes were full of tears and his lips were twitching. “What did he want to do that for?” he whispered to Nick. “We had ’em sure buffaloed and on the run, and now he’s plum’ spoiled the whole thing!”
“I reckon it was the best thing you could do, Emerson,” said Judge Harlin, “but I’m sorry you had to do it.”
Mead saw Daniels in the crowd around the body. “Hello, John,” he called, “I thought we tipped you over just now. Hurt much?”